


keep a place for me

by soojng



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Attempt at Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Late at Night, Laundry, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, References to Canon, Self-Indulgent, Sexual Tension, Weird Plot Shit, atsumu is an ass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:46:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25868398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soojng/pseuds/soojng
Summary: atsumu doesn’t want to get to know the tall, pretty boy at the late night laundromat. but he does, he does want to.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 3
Kudos: 179





	keep a place for me

**Author's Note:**

> sparked by this [tweet](https://twitter.com/popplioikawa/status/1292015815940665344). military time used; there is probably little accurate about college in japan & laundry.

**SOMEWHERE IN TOKYO, IN 2017**

**FRI. 2329**

Because Miya Atsumu is a third year sports medicine student at university now, his carefully crafted schedule consists of classes on all four weekdays except Fridays. Everyday, he happens to have volleyball practice, accompanied by his roommate and high school friend Suna Rintarou. On the weekends, the volleyball team goes out to celebrate, or Miya Atsumu will go on a date or do whatever the fuck he wants because it’s a weekend and he couldn’t be bothered to do his chores on a weekend. These are the circumstances that lead to Miya Atsumu doing his laundry late at night every Friday, though it happens that each Friday, he gears later and later toward nighttime until he’s in unspeakable territory because he cannot move from his bed. In the beginning of the semester, he had diligently done the laundry at approximately nineteen hundred hours; now he has lost all sense of time. His roommate, Suna, because he is evil incarnate in the form of a skilled volleyball player and capitalistic business major, will pretend to sleep and refuse to help him.

It just so happens there is one other person that shows up at the crowdless laundromat every Friday night, without fail, like he’s set up to be Atsumu’s foil in life. Because said person is neat, precise with every fold, and uses the most expensive detergent in Japan, yet does his laundry at the same exact time as Atsumu, for whatever reason. He happens to be taller than Atsumu, happens to be cleaner, happens to bestow the air with a godlike smell, which Atsumu could get a whiff of from ten feet away, and seems like he has a handsome face, not that Atsumu could tell, under that face mask of his. He does not utter a single word to Atsumu. 

Like a challenge, like a brand new, modern day dick measuring contest, Atsumu tracks who leaves first in his mind. They don’t interact throughout these Friday nights, but it’s a real, real thing. So far, Atsumu is winning. So far, he has also lost eight socks, two shirts, a bunch of coins, and finds that he is very, very haphazard with his laundry. 

**SUN. 1511**

It might’ve been three wins for Atsumu now, who’s counting, when he finds out who said person, Laundry Guy, is. Previous Friday's encounter, Atsumu there with his airpods on, had peeked and scoped out an unrecognizable Nike sports team shirt, the name _Sakusa_ on a tag.

Because Suna knows everything about everyone and also has the powers of social media stalking as a repertoire, and because Atsumu couldn’t keep his mouth shut, he finds out _Sakusa_ is Sakusa Kiyoomi, third year biology major from the college next door, who happens to play volleyball too. 

“He must suck ass if we haven’t played against him,” Atsumu smirks, another win for him, as he’s taking a bite out of Aran’s ice cream. 

“Um, actually,” Suna retorts, “maybe _we_ suck. They were the finalists at last year’s intercollegiate championship.”

Aran laughs. Kita takes a photo of whatever expression Atsumu has on and sends it to Osamu, who berates him later about _Laundry Guy_ through a spam of texts. Yet unbeknownst to him, they all have a _Miya Atsumu is an Idiot_ group chat going on where they trade these photos like they’re Pokemon cards. 

**FRI. 2351**

Clearly god is giving a sign to Atsumu that he’s _too_ perfect, which is why Sakusa is there at the laundromat to keep him grounded. They’re next to each other, a few feet apart, using corresponding washers, though Atsumu started _first_ , and Atsumu gets a good look at Sakusa’s side profile and visage, pretending to watch whatever’s on the static, shitty television screen. Like he thought, Sakusa is handsome, has a nice body, especially his hands, his face all angular, black, curly hair (he probably uses the most expensive hair products in Japan too, Atsumu curses), and deep set, big eyes, supplemented with college student eye bags, dark circles. Atsumu wins out on that one genetic blessing — he does not have dark circles. Unfortunately for him, Sakusa beats him out in height and hair. Also, unfortunately, Sakusa pulls off the dark circles very well. 

Sakusa is also well dressed every Friday, an Adidas tracksuit ensemble on this particular Friday, the most asshole move you could pull off at a laundromat, a few minutes before midnight, considering Atsumu is only wearing a white tank top and gray joggers, the product of throwing on whatever before muttering “shit, shit, shit” out the door while his roommate laughed, at the desire to beat out Sakusa Kiyoomi to be first at the laundromat ( _when the fuck does he come anyway? Does he live here?_ ). Sakusa smells good all the time too, and that may be because he uses the best, overpriced detergent there (Atsumu has eyed it). He never leaves a scrap or lint anywhere and he probably shits out gold. 

Sakusa could read minds, Atsumu realizes halfway through his once over, he really could, because Sakusa makes eye contact with him, then at the television that Atsumu is pretending to watch. Sakusa has an indiscernible expression (no, really, because he has a mask on) and gets back to watching his laundry. Couldn’t he at least _pretend_ to be bothered? 

What would he be bothered by, anyway? Atsumu did nothing wrong.

**SAT. 1903**

_This is the wrong time to be thinking about Laundry Guy._

Miya Atsumu knows he’s good looking and tall, knows he’s a talented athlete (Best Setter back in high school, don’t forget that), knows he’s got a great personality. These three traits win over all the girls _and_ guys at the gym, at the library, at school, at wherever he decides to go. The only thing he could be better at is his hygiene, but whatever, he showers everyday like a good athlete, doesn’t use 2 in 1 shampoo because his hair do’s precious, and does his laundry every Friday, though he has been losing more and more of his wardrobe. 

He is trying to recall these very facts when the cafe worker writes out her number on his coffee cup, with _Call Me :)_ written in black Sharpie, but at the moment he is thinking about how displeased he is that someone has written so much on something he will drink out of. There’s a five minute window where he could think out a plan of action, because sure, the girl is cute, and Bokuto is doing a wink and elbow bump, but instead he’s thinking about how, if he were Sakusa, he would throw out this cup with writing sprawled all over it (because he’s seen it before, two Fridays ago, maybe, how Sakusa avoids direct contact with anything that isn’t Sakusa’s). But he isn’t Sakusa. 

He doesn’t have to think twice. He walks out with Bokuto, evades questions, drinks his hot decaf coffee slowly, albeit regretfully, and doesn't look back. He makes an excuse to avoid going to the club and hauls himself home in his Camry.

“Thought you would be out late tonight,” Suna says when Atsumu steps inside their apartment, lacking any type of emotion in his voice, not looking up from the Netflix show he’s watching. 

“You thought wrong.”

Suna is an evil person and probably intends on capitalizing whatever demise Atsumu is going through. This is why his eyes sparkle when he pauses the show and stares up at Atsumu. “Have you ever, like, even talked to Sakusa?”

“Why would I? Oh gee, Sakusa, where'd ya buy those jeans you’re folding right now?” 

Suna guffaws only the way a business student can. “Yeah, why don’t you say something like that? You know, you are in deep.”

**FRI. 0008**

The crime scene sprawled out before Atsumu’s eyes: dimly lit laundromat, two sleeping workers by the desks, static television quietly playing the news with a faint pop song overlapping. Sakusa Kiyoomi, said smooth criminal, is wearing casual attire, to his shock: black v-neck short sleeve shirt, black sweatpants. 

Here, Sakusa turns to face him, full body and all, eyes narrowed. Directly at him. Atsumu. He’s midway into folding a navy blue shirt. Atsumu could ignore him, could gulp, could speak first. But he doesn’t do anything that his mind’s screaming at him to do. Sakusa takes the big, first step forwards, winning this time against Atsumu’s big moment. Atsumu blinks rapidly, only for a second. If it was a staring contest, he realizes then, he would’ve lost. _Damn it._ Another step; Sakusa, contrary to his 6’4 (Atsumu has figured out the measurements through his powers of visual comparison) body, is slow at walking. Or deliberately slow. _This is it, the big moment, the decisive moment, ‘cause Atsumu is just so fucking irresistible, this is the —_

“You’ve got a piece of spinach on your teeth,” Sakusa points out lazily, too bluntly, a finger out and all, making a show out of his flexible wrists. He turns around, walks away.

**FRI. 1849**

It’s been two weeks since Spinachgate ( _why the fuck did he have to eat spinach that day?)_. Miya Atsumu hasn’t gone anywhere near the laundromat in the days since, and his roommate is paying for it. 

“You smell like shit,” Suna remarks, pinching his nose with two fingers. “Are my eyes deceiving me, or have you worn that shirt three days in a row now?”

“Ever heard of recycling? ‘Course you haven’t, you study _business_.”

Suna rolls his eyes. Atsumu curses, falls back into his bed, comes to the deadly realization that he really needs to wash this shirt (to be fair, it’s a comfortable plain black cotton shirt, thanks UNIQLO). Three days is being gratuitous, it’s been five days, actually. Osamu would kick him to oblivion if he could. _He_ could go to the other laundromat, but it’s on the other side of town and there was an incident in the past year consisting of the ceiling lights breaking off. What is he so scared of, anyway? He could go to the laundromat as he pleases, any time, any day, it’s not like he’s _banned_ , and it’s not like Sakusa would be there to haunt him. 

_Fuck Sakusa._

“Like, actually? Nobody would fuck you in that shirt,” Suna laughs. 

_Fuck Suna. Also, why the fuck is Atsumu airing out his inner monologue?_

**FRI. 0115**

Because Atsumu has given up on trying, he takes two showers and comes out smelling like a mango, brushes his teeth, and picks out his freshest, cleanest outfit yet from his closet (white shirt, black denim jeans) on the trip to the laundromat. He makes an expression like he does when he’s constipated (fuck Suna) and fixes his hair by the reflective windows before he enters. 

Like he expected, like Sakusa is his loan shark sent from hell to track him down, Sakusa Kiyoomi is there, _the_ only one there (Miya Atsumu, did you really just ignore the laundry workers?), standing pretty with perfect posture as always, folding his laundry. Since Sakusa Kiyoomi has the reflexes of a god, of a supernatural, he turns around immediately. Sakusa _does not_ have his facemask on, which proves the bottom half of his face is all human, which proves he does take in common people laundromat oxygen, which proves he is even more fucking pretty and handsome and Atsumu despises him for taking that mask off. Sakusa Kiyoomi looks exhausted and has a minimal amount of laundry next to him but for some reason he’s still here. Atsumu could’ve done his laundry on Sunday.

Atsumu _does not_ engage in any sort of talking. He goes to the back, shoves all his shit in the washer. He waits. He _does_ _not_ make any sort of eye contact with Sakusa, who is all the way at the front. Wait, scratch that, Sakusa is _right_ next to him, smelling good like always (extra good, actually), eyeing the vending machine. Holy shit, Sakusa might eat food from a _vending machine?_ On all his Fridays there, Sakusa has never even so much as stepped _near_ the vending machine. 

“That is so unhealthy,” Atsumu bullshits, like he’s concerned, and he could smack himself for speaking out loud. Also, what would he know, he buys from the vending machine all the time.

“I know.” Boredom creeps in that pleasant husky, deep voice of his, and Atsumu wonders if Sakusa _just_ enjoys riling him up. 

“You hungry, or something?” Atsumu could care less (not true). He keeps talking out of his ass anyway. Sakusa is looking at him, eyes bored into his, no mask on. Bye bye, use of common sense, ability to think. It’s been a good run.

“I know a spot,” Sakusa says slowly. “To eat.” And fuck Sakusa, really, ‘cause that should’ve been Atsumu’s line. Now Atsumu has been left flustered for the first time in his college career, for the first time in his life, not that he would admit to that. Sakusa has also, by this point, probably won Atsumu’s imaginary competition.

“Oh yeah? Why don’t ya take me there?” Atsumu asks, eyebrows raised, but it’s more of a challenge proposed, really. He’ll get the last laugh.

“That was kind of the point, yeah.”

“Oh.”

He does not get the last laugh.

**FROM: ATSUMU**

Might b late tonight

Dont lock the door, left my keys

**FROM: SUNA**

So you meant fuck, fuck, huh? ;)

**FROM: ATSUMU**

Shut the fuck up

**FROM: SUNA**

I gotta tell everyone LMAO

oops

ignore that

Two jerks walk into a bar together… there’s a punchline to be made, brb

Unfortunately, they did not remember the very crucial reminder to go back to check on their laundry. Whatever, from now on, Atsumu’s hygiene should be _top tier_.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> does this even make sense


End file.
